


the brilliant charge of our infrequent couplings

by xpatxperience



Category: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn - Mark Twain, Adventures of Tom Sawyer - Mark Twain
Genre: Dare I Say - Courtship?, Discussions of Mental Health Issues, Healing, Huck is a Raft Guide, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pap Finn's A+ Parenting, Pen Pals, Spoilers for Nicholas Sparks The Choice, Tom is a Journalist, Trying to Play Gay Feelings off as a Joke, mentions of injury, minimal plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22197172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpatxperience/pseuds/xpatxperience
Summary: HelloTalk™ -- The Fastest and Most Trusted Pen Pal Site in the World. Connecting over one million people all over the world.Tom doesn't remember signing up for a pen pal, but he does remember stealing his brother's copy of Die Hard last Christmas; so really they were one in the same thing.Huck? Well, Huck could just really use some more friends.
Relationships: Huckleberry Finn/Tom Sawyer
Comments: 25
Kudos: 35





	1. we'll keep these in shoe boxes for years to come

**Author's Note:**

> Is this quality content? No. Is it in character? Probably not. Is it going to come back and haunt me like everything else I've written? Most assuredly. But most importantly, was it was written in a fugue state on a 16-hour flight??? Hell, yeah it was!!!! No thoughts head empty bitch!!!!
> 
> This also goes out to @/romantic-outcast on tumblr, you are captain ahab of this ship and we are but your whalers -- to reference another classic lit book written by a white dude
> 
> Also, to any of you wondering!!! I'll stop writing AU's when Mark Twain starts publishing more content!!!

****

**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

Dear Mr. Sawyer,

Listen, I don't know who you are... which I guess is kind of the whole point of this. I guess? But I'm writing to you because by the looks of your profile, you did this either as a joke or at three am as a dare. No offense to your amazing personal connection skills, but I am pretty sure that a profile which reads, 'There is no cure for being this bitchin' is either a Game of Thrones and/or Stranger Things reference - so you might be more inclined to help me out than anyone looking for like, a real pen pal. (Also, I have not seen either of the aforementioned shows so please do not expect me to understand any complex references. Yes, I understand that as a millennial I am failing my peers but satellite wi-fi and Netflix don't mesh well.)

My coworker Joe said that I needed to prove I had more than one friend (himself, as he probably assumed) by the end of the week because if not, he was going to start making me go to bars with him. I don't want to give you the impression that I am a total invalid; it's just that A) the closest bar is called the Rod-n-Gun Saloon and B) it's like thirty-five minutes away. And I mean, I am totally fine with going to bars, like whatever. I don't know why he cares so much. He has it in his head that I can't have successful social interactions. Which, I will admit I don't necessarily talk to people all the time. I mean, nobody can do that ALL of the time? Sometimes you just want to sit on top of a mountain, alone. 

Anyway, I'll be eternally indebted to you slash give you what's left of my soul, if you write me a letter back making it look like you give a shit. I mean, you could also just send me a list of your favorite Vines or David Bowie's annotated bibliography or the entire Bee Movie script... I think that's what people do these days, right?

I also totally understand if you are A) looking for someone to have an in-depth pen pal friendship B) did this as a joke and are now throwing up from your probable hangover or C) don't give a fuck.

Thanks,

Huck

**Joplin, Missouri → Stanley, Idaho**

Listen my dude,

I have no idea who you are either. I have no idea what this program is. I have no idea how you got my address. I have a pretty good idea who would have signed me up for this (because I know someone who knows where I live and is not happy with me) but that is of no matter. 

You see, I was raised under the umbrella of what we call southern hospitality. It comes close to Catholic guilt in the running for worst effects on your adult life, let me tell you, but alas - my mother crafted me into a ride or die bitch. So, I'm ready to forge the best friendship that this goddamn program has ever seen. Therefore, as much as it pains me not to spend company time printing out hipster memes to send you (You are a hipster right? I Googled 'Stanley' and just got the guy from the Stephen King novel... clearly living somewhere before it was cool) we are doing absolutely none of that meme shit. You are going to get only the freshest, up to date, 100% true accounts of my current life. This is the kind of material that only happens in Buzzfeed articles, and as much as I would love to get paid to rank Disney parents, I am committed to doing real journalism duties in the workplace and will continue for the sheer ability to talk about this at work parties. 

Also, I gotta' veto owning your soul. While the idea of an indentured servant sounds like a good time, the actuality is just too 16th century for me - and I have watched enough Supernatural episodes to know that selling your soul just gets messy. (Please tell me in your mountain man life you've at least seen one episode of Supernatural? I know it is on public channels, plus it has been on since the beginning of freaking time. If you haven't seen it, it's because you're not even trying.) 

Okay, so the first thing your profile said was not to bring up the name...but like.....what's with the name? I thought that was a California thing. You know - kale, beach, frittata, whatever - but is that a West Coast thing? Having 'nature names'? More importantly - do people really call you that? What kind of woman spend nine months growing an entire goddamn baby only to shove it out and name it Huckleberry? Like isn't that kind of counterproductive? 

Not an insult to your mom, by the way. I'm sure she's great. Probably really great at chopping lumber or other lumberly actions. 

Indubitably yours,

Tom Sawyer

P.S Please, never again call me Mr. Sawyer, oh my god you make me feel like I'm forty years old. 

  
  
  


**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

Dear Sawyer,

Number one

Just call me Huck, okay?

Number two

I don't live on the West Coast. My state is as landlocked as yours. Though I'm astonished you managed to pin it in the west - you seem the type to think "I" state = Iowa.

Number three

No, having dumbass names isn't a 'thing'. It's the product of having a dad get a hold of the birth certificate when he's seven cans deep into a pack of Budweiser. 

Number four

My mom would have probably died chopping lumber if she hadn't died "shoving me out", as you put it. She had small wrists and an even smaller backbone.

Number five

You _literally_ have the same name as a 1981 RUSH song.

Best,

Huck

Number six

"Lumberly actions' had better be a reference to the CAPTCHA meme (yes, I know what a fucking meme is) otherwise your letter had zero good parts.

(And yes, of course, I've seen Supernatural.)

  
  
  
  


**Joplin, Missouri → Stanley, Idaho**

Alright. Raspberry, it is then,

Good parts? What do you think this is? The Princess Bride? I am nothing but the amalgamation of every single annoying person I've ever met, because sadly -- those seem to be the only character traits that stick. It's like a curse. I once got to go intern at the LA Times (where there was a man named Kale, so HA it is a thing) and all I took back from the experience, besides some kick-ass letters of recommendation, was the inability to understand people with Southern accents. 

I am literally from the South. 

How do you lose the ability to understand my mom? Well, she's not my real mom she's my aunt but she raised me because there was this whole thing... fuck it.

I didn't think that we'd get to this whole, emotional, single man tear of pain part (I'm glad you've experienced the cultural touchstone that is Jensen Ackles acting) until maybe the second or third letter, but I guess since you mentioned it now I have to. It's just... for lack of a more tactful way to put it - we're in the same boat on the whole 'dead parents'; thing. Unfortunately, a car accident and a drunk driver doesn't even touch the tragedy of maternal death. Anyway, it happened when I was six so there's not much life I can remember beforehand to even miss, and I've been graced with copious amounts of extended family. Did you end up in the system? God, that would suck. Foster care is kind of like the dank armpit of the social work world...

Most Bestest of Regards,

Tom Sawyer 

P.S I have been notified by my co-worker, Becky, who was very rudely reading over my shoulder as I typed this, that the last part is insensitive so if you don't want to answer it that's chill, but remember that the point of this is supposed to be us getting to know each other better and I just bared my whole soul vis-a-vis my tragic back story and you didn't even have to reach friendship level six-hundred to unlock it as everyone else did. 

So technically, you owe me one. :)

P.P.S Do you have something against the legendary Canadian rock band Rush? They are equal parts Led Zeppelin and Suzanne Vega. 

  
  
  
  


**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

Dear Sawyer,

First off, I know you can read, (somehow, by a goddamn miracle) so read this. It's just Huck, okay? I've heard all the fruit jokes your daily news circuit brain could come up with so stop while you're ahead. 

To answer your question, even though yes, it is highly insensitive, but apparently, your crass nature wouldn't know courteous if it slapped you in the face - I was indeed placed in foster care and yes, it was just as bad as you would think it would be. 

I grew up surrounded by people who resented and hated me for existing and now I am eternally judged for not wanting to be around anybody. They keep telling me that 'good people are out there' and I 'just need to see the good in others'. It is fucking ironic that no one was ever there to tell my fourth foster family that they should see all that shit in twelve-year-old me. Can't help but think that since I haven't met anyone of 'give a shit' caliber (present company included and you know it) maybe those kind of people just aren't out there. 

God, that sounds awful and pitiful. Please just scratch that whole part out with a sharpie. I'm starting to wonder if going to bars with probable health code violations would be better than having to dredge all of this back up just for the sake of having something in common. What do normal people talk about when they want to make friends? Books? Politics? Kanye Kardashian? 

Furthermore, why did you even sign up for this if all you want to do is end your letters with passive-aggressive smiley faces? Like, since you are responding I take it you didn't do this as some drunken dare. So what gives? Also, why are we still snail-mailing these letters? I don't want to drive the three miles to the post office only to be insulted by some guy who thinks RUSH is on the same level as Led Zeppelin. 

Huck

  
  
  
  


**Joplin, Missouri → Stanley, Idaho**

Like I said Rambutan,

I am _absolutely_ not scratching that part out. It is so far the only proof that you have a larger emotional range than a teaspoon. Imagine, Mr. I Am the Mountain, having more than one feeling. 

Secondly, we are mailing these to each other, and will continue to mail these as opposed to email because email, young grasshopper, ruins the aesthetic of it. I email my boss about neo-nazis, my mom when she thinks the wind blows the wi-fi away, and my brother about why his opinions of Pacific Rim are wrong. But you, Mr. Just Call Me Huck, get 1880's style the letters to match your 1880's style of living. Just be glad they're typed so you don't get the privilege of deciphering my handwriting on a bi-weekly basis. We can always go there. 

The fault in your logic is that you assumed I signed up for this program. At least, I don't think I've been that drunk in the recent past to have signed up for a pen pal. My brother has been pissed at me for basically his entire career as a human and probably did it as revenge for me breathing. At least, I assume he's behind it since last time be was feeling vengeful, Playboys started arriving in my mailbox daily. Why couldn't he order some GQ or OUT to even things out? It's 2018! I can only assume he wouldn't be afraid to stoop so low as to signing me up for a pen pal to get revenge.

And dude, you're thinking WAY too into this. I feel compelled to stop this so your co-worker can drag you out to make some real friends. We are writing to each other. You have all the time in the world to think of conversations and this is what you give me to work with? Keeping up with the Kardashians? Really? Are your social skills _really_ that bad?

How about we start with the basics. 

Hi, I'm Tom. I think Tom Cruise is secretly a cyborg. I cried during Big Hero 6. I went to school to be a lawyer and came out as an investigative journalist, which makes me both the middle child and the middle favorite. My sister Mary is a successful gynecologist and once punched a uterus back into a woman and the aforementioned brother, Sid, is planning on reselling name brand sneakers until he can marry a model. You think I'm bad? Try spending more than an hour in a room with that asshole once you insult the Fast and Furious franchise or God forbid LeLe Pons.

See? That wasn't so bad? Now you give it a try. What's your favorite color? Your mother's maiden name? First pet? What bank do you use? Your social security number....

With kindest regards, I remain, 

Tom Sawyer

  
  
  
  


**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

Dear Sawyer, 

For the last time. My name is Huck. Just. Huck. Stop with the exotic fruits. I have never eaten a rambutan. I have never even seen a rambutan. I have never even heard of a rambutan. 

Secondly, it's not that I don't know how to talk to people, I can talk to people just fine, I talk to so many people you don't even know. The cashier at the Stanley Merc once told me to please stop talking about Woodrow Wilson because there were other people in line. 

Is that not a successful conversation?

There - a singular fact about me. Go commit identity theft with that asshole. Try to steal my REI credit card I dare you. They once called me because I didn't purchase anything for three months and they thought I died. I had to awkwardly explain to Katie from Visa™ that I was just survival camping around the Frank Church Wilderness.

I don't want to make things awkward, but I get the feeling nothing can make you feel awkward -- so I 'm going to go ahead. 

I just wanted to go back and say thanks. About the whole parents' thing. You didn't have to do that - but you did. And that meant a lot to me for some reason. I've never met another orphan before.

It's kind of weird, to say you're an orphan. It feels like I need to be living on the street of 1860's London selling papers and dying of tuberculosis. But that's what we are, living components of an outdated concept. We have all these nice words now: foster kid, up for adoption, in the system, paternally displaced. All to keep those on the outside feeling good because they don't have to say the truth behind those words, abandoned. 

Sometimes I like to say that I'm an orphan, in the same sense I think people with cancer like to say they have cancer, or vegans always have to remind you they are vegans so that their suffering has to be acknowledged by others. As you probably know, the pity makes you eventually go a bit batshit crazy so I've resorted to just telling people I 'had a rough home life'. 

In my occupation, it doesn't matter anyway. I used to have a, what Joe calls 'real person job' in Yellowstone, but since 45 rolled out all the cut back with National Parks funding, they had to let everyone in my division go. It wasn't so bad for me, I never really stay in one place too long anyway, but I felt awful for the people who were 50 something and had worked there for 30+ years. Now, I just live in a cabin with three other guys and make sure rich people don't die while rafting. I'm not even sure if you can call being a raft guide an occupation anyway? It's one of those things you do until your kayak flips at the wrong moment and then your occupation is being paraplegic. Not to sound morbid or anything, that's honestly how I would like to go. Either that or I climb to the top of a mountain and then an eagle comes down from the sky and turns me into a bear or some shit. That'd be cool as hell. 

Huck

  
  


**Joplin, Missouri → Stanley, Idaho**

My apologies, Papaya, 

What. The. Fuck. Is. SURVIVAL CAMPING? Don't think I'm not going to circle back and address the fact that we just had a real intimate bonding moment but - holy shit! 

I couldn't wait for your reply so I've gone ahead and Google searched what survival camping is and would like to take back the mean things I've said about you. Not because they're untrue - but because when the zombie apocalypse breaks out I'd like to have you on my team. What the hell! You lived in the fucking woods like Mothman for three whole months? What breed of human are you? 

And, yeah. I mean no problem. With the parent thing. It's not that big of a deal. I mean for me at least! I don't want you to think that I don't think it's a thing for you. Just, I never really got a chance to break out the O word. Maybe it was because I got swept up in the legal proceedings of 'parental guardian hearings' and 'custody battle royale' I never really had a chance to realize that I, in all sense of the word, am an orphan. When you have multiple aunts vying to take you into their homes you don't feel all that orphaned. 

I should also be thanking you. It's been a while since I felt I could be, I don't know, my authentic messy self. There is something about the fact that this is all in writing that soothes me a bit. I once went head to head with motherfucker himself Bill O'Reilly of Fox News about immigration law and didn't even break a sweat. But talking about myself? Yikes. I never know what to do with my hands!!! Where do I put them! Do I cross them! Does that look threatening? I usually end up being WAY to expressive for the situation and then everything becomes ten times more awkward.

So yeah, I'm sorry that happened to you - I won't say you're a stronger person now because that implies all of that hurt made you a better person - and you shouldn't have had to endure it in the first place. All I will say is I'm sorry and that if you ever grow tired of your sorrow only being heard by the mountains you can scream to me - anytime. 

Wow, now that the bummer part is out-of-the-way, let's move to something way more cheerful like the new-- sorry, I had to take a call just then and forgot what I was going to finish with. I have to leave anyway, apparently, something new is going down with the story I've been working on - nazi's never take a god damn day off! I know I'm not going to have any time to rewrite this ending before I send this out tomorrow so just imagine I talked about my piece on how corrupt the current local government is - that's a REAL cheerful bit...

Until we meet again,

Tom Sawyer

  
  
  
  


**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

Dear Sawyer, 

If you don't knock it off with the fruit names, things are going to get ugly. Don't forget, two can play at this game. 

I, unfortunately, resonate a little too much with the Nazi thing. If you ever stumble your way to Idaho I can take you up North to our actual real-life white supremacist compound. You want to talk about trauma bonding? There ya' go, we can replace all of our childhood angst with nightmares about from rednecks who worship Robert E. Lee. 

Survival camping is... yeah. I went off the grid for some time after some shit went down with my dad that I don't want to get into - and since you already know how it ends, I hope you can find it in yourself to not be nosy for once in your life. It's really weird hearing you frame it as an Olympic sport though. Got to admit, sometimes you just forget some people have.... real houses with hot water. Going into it I didn't know everything and have a nasty scar on my arm to commemorate that, but I was in that sort of place where it didn't matter. I just had to leave.

I probably sound like I'm fucking crazy. Anyway, it's really handy now that I live in kinda the middle of nowhere. That way when I have to kayak down a waterfall or chop down a tree or climb a mountain with a broken arm, I can be like 'hey! I've done this before'. The one downside, however, is now my entire wardrobe is the same three shades of grey, green, and black. It makes finding the EXACT shirt you need kind of difficult, especially since Carol, who runs the mercantile, will start to give me her disappointed mom look if I wear the same thing for too long. Then I must have the internal battle of 'why do I care what Carol thinks she probably voted for Trump' and 'she doesn't charge me for produce because she knows I'm poor and that's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me'. 

Here's a fact I think you and your 12-year-old mind will enjoy. The local government office got some census data back a couple of days ago and do you want to know how many residents there are? 

69.

I'm not making this up. When I saw that, the first thing I thought was that you would be ecstatic to know that. So, there it is. I don't know if you've ever lived in a small town, but it is nothing like how the Hallmark channel thinks it is. 

It's great in the way nobody has the pleasure of hating you - but pretty much terrible in the sense that no one will leave you the fuck alone for six and a half seconds. Everyone thinks that if you come to the forest it's like Walden Pond and you just get to write shitty poetry and eat pies but no, you get stuck fixing Bethany Willis' porch for the seventh time because last winter you got three feet of snow. In my next life, I am going straight to Canada and living _Hatchet_ style until I die. 

Huck

  
  
  
  


**Joplin, Missouri → Stanley, Idaho**

Is that a threat, Durian?

SIXTY-NINE PEOPLE? I would make a joke about moving there just to enjoy living in a place with that fun fact, but then there would be seventy people and it would just be ruined. Let me know next time someone dies and if you need a roommate, okay? Until then I'll just have to come visit you and your resident white supremacists. It sounds like a great date idea. I should really start working for Buzzfeed at this rate...

Listen, you have to stop selling yourself short on your personality. So your personality is kayaking and climbing mountains? Ladies love that whole 'I am the mountain I speak for the trees' stuff. That's way fucking cooler than anything I do! All I do is write about how 'Nazis are bad' and then get yelled at by middle-aged men for not 'displaying all of the facts' and 'compromising the journalistic integrity of the Joplin Globe' like pull yourself together Brad. We get it. You're a fascist.

God, that's my life. Debating people on whether Nazis are bad. That and covering the current race for governor. It's a wild one let me tell you. One of them I'm currently investigated for said white supremacy behavior. I don't know if I should have told you that. Whatever. If I never have to hear the words 'gubernatorial candidate' ever again I will die a happy man. 

How does one become a raft guide slash mountain whisperer may I ask? I looked on Wikihow and found only a very sad article littered with interesting photos of people who look more like they are all passing kidney stones and WAY too much information on how to become CPR certified. However, the art of manliness (no joke, real website) provides extensive details on how to port a raft over a canyon. (Like holy shit do you have to do that? If so, you truly have the honor of a man; only because your occupation - we can count it a such- makes you as swift as a coursing river.

Secondly, how the fuck does that work in the winter? I read "three feet of snow" and my soul cried for you. It once reached 30 degrees here and I thought it was the end of times and Lucifer's hell burns cold. When I said so out loud to Mary during one of our neighborhood get together I saw multiple mothers cover their children's ears because they don't allow that name to be said in their 'good Christian household'. So, I get you on the not being left alone for six and a half seconds. I wouldn't say my community is 'small', but Southern women have this way of knowing too much, too soon, and for too long. 

For example, Mrs. Devin knew Mary was pregnant before she did, and she's an OB/GYN. How creepy is that? Being able to out baby an actual baby doctor. Also, Mrs. Devin was the one who thought it would be a good idea to air the news that Mr. Davidson was cheating on his wife at the Semi-annual Little Miss Sunshine Show. Then there is the fact that Mrs. Hunbolt somehow traced back every single student that Mr. Gale had in his twenty-year teaching career and got them to sign a 'stay strong' card when he got cancer. Sweet - but terrifying. Kind of like Leslie Knope (you would get that reference if you ever got out of that awful fresh air and watched TV like the rest of us).

I, as always, 

Tom Sawyer

  
  
  
  


**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

Dear Limelight, 

Ha, how does it feel now? The thrift store in town ended up having an extensive collection of RUSH cassette tapes, and wow, some of these song titles are weird. I'm just thinking you could have been named "By-Tor and the Snow Dogs". You had better step up your game. 

But to your question, from the logistical standpoint, one becomes a raft guide by getting hired by a company and getting certified in basically everything under the sun: wilderness first responder, CPR, swift water rescue, the list goes on. So yes, I guess wikihow was correct for one of the first times ever. From the 'this is a life choice someone decided to make' standpoint, it gets a little more complicated. There are some people here who were born and raised near the water and it's all that they know. Some people just love the outdoors and spend all of their free time climbing mountains and kayaking so why not get paid to do it. While I do love the outdoors and having a job where it's professionally respectable to wear Chacos 24/7 - mostly I stick around because I think it's all I know how to do.

My childhood was unpleasant - let's put it - and living near the woods I got really good, really fast, at staying out late and not dying. I never got good at algebra or geography or fucking, I don't know, Spanish because I was that weird kid who got detention for showing people who to make a fire on the playground. A great way to get popular with all the parents in town to commit arson. Makes you a LOT of friends. Does that make any sense? I feel like you would understand. You're from the south but sound very, well... unsouthern. Do you know what I'm talking about? Being.... different?

I don't know why I am telling you all this. The false anonymity from just writing letters and never seeing your face seems to give me some false sense of security. I mean, for all I know you could be a fifty-year-old man mining me for data to sell to Cambridge Analytica. However, I get what you were saying about this all being in writing. I too never know what to do with my hands when I talk. 

But back to the topic, yes I do port rafts over canyons and I am both surprised and astonished that you were able to use the correct terminology in regards to that. Truly blows my mind you have more knowledge of the world than just vine complication quotes. No, it's not as cool as you are thinking it would be. Mostly I have to lead a group of six girl scouts over a rocky shoulder while they are carrying 600 lbs of inflatable rubber and making sure none of them fall into the waterfall three feet away from us. Now that I think about it, it's kind of terrible. 

Winters up here are kind of horrendous. Many people will just jump ship during the cold months to go work as ski instructors down at the base of the mountain or up in Sun Valley. A few of us stay behind though and work with the different companies to set up different winter hiking expeditions or snowshoeing or ice fishing or really whatever people with enough money and are crazy enough to want to do. 

Your interaction with Southern ladies sounds like something I would very much like to never have happen to me. Southern women are a brand of the female species that I could go my entire life without encountering. Women are terrifying in general to me and those who can know my thoughts before I do aren't women - they're aliens. Aliens I am sure of it. One time when I was in high school I had to partner with this girl (Sophie? I think her name was?) for a presentation in government on the history of the speaker of the house and I accidentally said Ryan Paul (instead of Paul Ryan) and the girl almost ripped my colon out of my throat. (We didn't even get marked down or anything?)

Anyway, if I never have to encounter women in a social setting its a good thing. Usually, I've been told that I'm "bad at reading social situations" and "hopeless with the ladies", but jokes on them! I don't like women! I'm more of a The Office person than Parks and Rec but I've been told that it's really good by this lady, Kimberly, who I work with. It's pretty accurate from what I have seen. 

Anyway, I have a group coming in fifteen so I should probably go make sure I have paddles and shit.

Huck

  
  
  
  


**Joplin, Missouri → Stanley, Idaho**

I accept your challenge Mangosteen,

You live in a National Park and you don't like Parks and Rec? You are living Ron Swanson's dream!!! Not that I think you would ever own a claymore mine as office decor. You just seem like the kind of person who would throw their computer out after discovering Google Earth. Is that a weird assumption to make? I feel like with anyone else I would feel self-conscious spewing my internal thoughts like this, but we just seem past being self-conscious. Anyway, thank you - I will indeed sell all of your secrets to Mr. FBI-man-who-lives-in-all-our-computers himself. Seriously though, thank you. For trusting me with the heavier parts of your life. Not a lot of people in my life have done that recently and it makes me feel, I don't fucking know, connected to something other than myself. 

When I was younger I had this idea in my head of who I had to be. Tom Sawyer was - The kind of stuff they have in binders at Disney and when they reboot Spider-man they have to make sure he is helpful and straight and white. There was this picture that used to hang in our front entryway of our whole family, pre-accident, and I would always look at it and think, who was that kid supposed to be. Do I have to always be helpful and straight and white? I mean, except for the white part - obviously. Because I don't think I'm him anymore. 

Tom Sawyer was a smart ass. He was a trickster and a flirt and someone who I thought was inescapable until I started taking Zyprexa. Who I am in these letters feels closer to who I want to be than any version of me anyone in real life has seen. I hope you're real too. I hope you're out there and you understand me. 

Anyway! What a fucking bummer topic am I right! Why do I keep only talking about myself! Let's talk about Becky! I only now realize that despite seeing her for nine hours on average every day I have only mentioned her, once? Twice? Whatever it is, it is surely not enough. Becky is the light of my life. When we first met, I thought I had a crush on her until she explained to me that what I was feeling was called ' friendship' and it was completely normal. She also taught me how to braid. Got to admit. That's a nifty skill to have. 

The point is she is dragging me to see some new Nicholas Sparks movie that just released. I'm not saying 'dragging' in the sense that my masculinity is so fragile I will become (more) gay if I see a chick-lit movie - it's that this isn't the first time she's done this and she KNOWS I don't like sad movies. Mr. Sparks loves to make you cry and I am NOT a pretty crier. I am GROSS. Which is how you should be when crying! Never see me cry, you will lose all respect you have for me. 

I trust you will find this reply satisfactory, and remain yours faithfully, 

Tom Sawyer

  
  
  
  


**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

You will lose this battle, Spirit of Radio,

Please report back to me on your thoughts regarding the movie. I've already seen it and have a lot of opinions. Joe, the one who got me into this mess as mentioned in my first letter several months ago, has a girlfriend who's read every single novel that man produces. Whether or not she enjoys them or that they are just easy to obtain at small bookstores has yet to be revealed - but the movie theatre in town only shows two movies at a time, so we often don't get much choice in our weekend entertainment. Joe's girlfriend is the reason I have my current job. She worked in Stanley as a raft guide when she was in college and is good friends with the people to run the company I'm at now. So I can't give her too much shit about liking poorly written novels which feature ZERO sword fighting and WAY too many adjectives about people's eyes. Throw in a fucking car chase once in a while will ya' Nick, spice it up a bit. 

I promise I won't think you're ugly when you cry if you promise not to judge me for what I'm about to admit. I now basically every single plot to his novels (not like they change very often, it's kind of a procedural thing) because when Joe and I worked in Yellowstone, he would recap them to me while we were hiking up a mountain looking for some stupid bison. 

Did you know all of those car blocking beasts you see in Yellowstone are actually bison? People used to ask me where a good place to see the buffalo and I would make the joke, 'East Asia, of course', and they would not get it. Then I would have to explain the misnomer of buffalo vs bison - I usually left the fact that buffalo have meter long horns until the end so I could claim, 'You wouldn't want to be camping around those!'. It all felt very summer camp like. I don't think I could ever claim to hate that job, I got paid to walk around in the forest and also had healthcare, but I do enjoy the fact that I can now tell people, 'If you don't listen to me you may die". 

We've moved past the halfway point in the season at work. Everybody is talking about their winter plans and what they are going to do when September comes and goes. Lots of people have to head back to school and won't stop complaining about how they're going to have to start studying again and taking pointless tests. RIP to them, but I'm different. People have already started coming up and talking to me about watching their houses over the winter and fixing this and that while they're gone. Jenn, who teaches at the school wanted to make sure that I'd be around when the water heater inevitably breaks down and needs fixing. I haven't told anybody else this, but my two-year contract is up in December. Once the new year comes - technically I'm free to go do whatever I want. I'm not sure what that is right now. I mean, I am not white-collar material. I'll probably stick around. I mean, this is what I'm good at. I don't know.

Huck

  
  
  
  


**Joplin, Missouri → Stanley, Idaho**

A worthy opponent you are, Langsat,

What's my opinion on The Choice, you ask? You ask so innocently as if you didn't lead me into one-hundred minutes of absolute white heterosexual bullshit You could have given me a fucking warning man! What the hell! I mean I knew I was fucked when it opened with the lines, "I'm about to tell you the secret to life." Yeah Mr. Committed-Actual-Adultery, are you? Are you really? Jesus Christ. I could write better shit than that when I was an intern at CNN. It got one star on Rotten Tomatoes. I Googled it while we were still in the theatre watching the credits. I thought we were friends Huck, how could you lead me to the slaughter like that. A car accident AND a coma? 

Despite my want to fill this letter with nothing but cursing whoever green-lit that monstrosity of a movie and cursing you for letting me see it, I have to move on. I don't have a lot of time to get this about because as we speak I am sitting in the back of a Prius while Becky drives me East to do some interviews with a couple of people. Normally races for governorship come one point of being dirty, but this one has brought up some rather serious claims that need to be investigated. Supposedly, one of the candidates, this guy named Rubert Peters' parents belonged to the Mississippi Klan back in the 50s and 60s. He's refusing to give a statement on it so now I have to drive to the border and meet with some poor woman who was supposedly terrorized by them in 67'. 

Like I said, fucking Nazis never rest. 

Listen, I'm all for you living your best Far Side of The Mountain life. I definitely want to hear more about this Yellowstone gig. I'm learning a lot already. I'll be a bison expert in no time. Got any other fun facts for me ;) ? I will support you no matter what you do but don't shoot yourself in the foot by thinking you can't do something before you give it a try. Flip a coin. You'll know what you want mid-air. 

  
  


Waiting to know your judgment, I am,

Tom Sawyer 

  
  
  
  


**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

I hope all is well, Working Man, 

I'm attempting to make a joke and abide by our unofficial rivalry with pleasantries however it now seems like I am calling you a prostitute. I don't think you're a prostitute. Don't get me wrong, you're smart enough and savvy enough I'm sure you could pull that off. If you were interested that is. I found that Bill O'Reilly segment you mentioned a while back and you are definitely attractive enough. Although wow, you have a lot of pent up rage. It's like watching a feral raccoon attack a child. I'm going to stop this before I make things more awkward than they already are. 

You'll have to forgive me for not warning you about the cinematic disaster that is The Choice. I had to see it on a Sunday at two pm and my entire day was ruined because I couldn't stop thinking about how bad they did that poor dog. I needed someone who would complain about it with me. Joe is too whipped by his girlfriend to rant about it with me. One star seems generous. I will be writing them a strongly worded letter to get that down to zero stars. I'm not a book person, but I can not imagine what kind of people commit several hours of their fleeting existent to read such material. I've read, not that many books, but the ones I did I made sure where not hot garbage that is probably going to be roasted on YouTube. SlaughterHouse Five - my only literary recommendation, if you've read it, don't tell me if you hate it because I won't be able to bear it. If you haven't, it's five dollars at Barnes & Noble. 

I can't tell if you are being sarcastic about the bison information. I can only tell by the return of the passive-aggressive winky face that you're trying to be coy, but jokes on you I'm going to talk more just to spite you ;). How does it feel now ;) ? Ha ;). 

Three words for you. The Redwood Forests. Jesus, I tell you, Tom, if you are ever out west; go see the Redwood Forests in North California. Maybe when you become the award-winning journalist you think you are and move to LA to work for MSNBC or something you can take a jaunt upstate. It's the most mesmerizing thing I have ever witnessed. The sun is swallowed by the trees. The sky is eclipsed by the branches. You're walking into the ocean and getting swallowed by fauna and the sunlight is being filtered into you only because the trees decide to let it. 

That probably sounds stupid. 

Whatever. 

I'll just have to show you one day. 

  
  


Huck

  
  
  
  


**Joplin, Missouri → Stanley, Idaho**

Greeting from Mississippi, Sapodilla,

Pulitzer prize-winning? Wow, you have some high expectations for me to live up to. You're starting to sound like my mom. As soon as I told her I didn't want to be a lawyer, she stopped talking about the bar exam and started hounding me about when I was going to become Ronan freakin' Farrow. Personally, I'm more of a Jon Lovett, but we can't all be choosers when it comes to high family expectations. 

Don't worry about going overboard; I'm kind of into it. ;). Your extreme passion almost gives me the impression that under this 9pt Calibri font there might be a person with a personality who enjoys things other than dunking on the small town that they live in. Hate to say it, but trees seem to be your thing, Finn. Plus, hearing someone talk about something they love is one of the fine enjoyments in life. I can only imagine. I can only imagine it looks good on you in person. I'll give you a rating when you take me there. I want to see the full extent of your gushing in person one day. 

Most importantly though - you internet stalked me? Buy me dinner first, come on. Also, this isn't fair because now you know what I look like and I have no freaking clue if you're as hot as I imagine someone who spends all day rafting would be. Bet you have some pretty amazing biceps? Makes you good at.. hugging, I bet. Also, please excuse the fact I looked like that twink from Grey's Anatomy on that particular day. My hair normally doesn't make me look like possessed Eliot Waugh. 

I'll make you a deal. When I move out to LA because I'm so fucking good at my job I can work for cable companies, I'll fly into Idaho and you can show me all of the best fucking trees and parks that side of the country has to offer. You can even take me to a proper dinner for internet creeping on me. 

This letter is also coming at you from Mississippi, where I and Becky have returned to after, fortunately - but in a shitty way, it turns out there was something to chase regarding our gubernatorial candidates' connection to white supremacy gangs. Whether we can say he is personally connected and is still active, we have yet to uncover, but we can for sure say he's been connected in the past. Which, still - yikes. 

My therapist, a middle-aged woman named Lynn who I love and should really see more often, told me that I need to take a break from work. So, like a true millennial, I am ignoring her advice and settling fully into that #grind culture. I mean get this, a Peters' spends his entire collegiate career working to build a new chapter of the Young Republicans' Allegiance - and right as he's about to give up and study dentistry, he receives his funding in full from an anonymous donor and starts working under one of the most radical members, who previously couldn't secure any amount of help. That's weird right??? Please tell me that's weird. 

I should listen to her more often. After all, she prescribes my meds which allow me to have self-control.

More than that, I should really go to bed. I think it's like 3 am.

  
  


Your friendly neighborhood 'could be a prostitute' journalist,

Tom Sawyer

  
  
  
  


**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

For the one, the only, Xanadu,

I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I don't think you know anybody else in Stanley to break the news to you. The food here sucks. I'm sorry. It's just not good. There is nowhere in a 20-mile radius where you would want to eat. It is not up to your metropolitan standards. Sometimes it's not up to my standards and I've eaten the meat of a deer I hit with my truck. Which is not as weird as it sounds, okay. It's completely lawful to harvest animals killed in vehicular slaughter in the state of Idaho. People do it all the time. It's a really bad and (depending on how damaged your car is) expensive way to hunt. 

I used to go hunting with my dad. It was one of the few things we ever did together. There were a couple of times when I was like 10 or 12ish and we would go out into the middle of nowhere and just sit; for hours. Just the two of us. We wouldn't talk, and I doubt we would have anything to say to each other if we did, but I always felt the closest to him then. I would get it in my head that I understood him, and why he was the way he was, and why he did the things he did. The person he was then is how I wish my brain remembered him to be. Quiet. Perceptive. Not raging drunk and brandishing a fire poker. He was the one who taught me how to load and shoot a gun; which is ironic since - well, you probably don't want to hear about that moment of trauma. 

I went to a therapist once, after the whole thing with my father went down. I've never talked to anyone about that. I wouldn't have brought it up but since you told me about your parents after I talked about mine - I thought I would give you the same courtesy. She told me I had PTSD, which I thought seemed all very hippy crunchy granola. I didn't go to war. I didn't get my arm blasted off by a claymore. I wasn't in the South Tower when the plane flew into it. I think most of what she said must have been therapist speak for things I don't understand - but I'll admit to you Tom, if only in writing. I can't stand to hear the sound of gunshots anymore. 

How do you make jokes about it? How do you get to that point? This is the hardest thing I've ever written and it's barely a page?

I'll take you up on your North American tour of trees and parks. Another one for the list, Craters of the Moon. It's not too far from where we I love now. Joe and I drove down there once when we both had some time off and it's spectacular. Not in the way you think of nature as being spectacular, but it's something else. NASA used to practice their capsule landings there back in the Apollo days. We can pretend to be astronauts. 

Huck

  
  
  
  


**Joplin, Missouri → Stanley, Idaho**

To the one they call Persimmon,

  
  


Listen, just how good do you think the food in _JOPLIN, MISSOURI_ is? Any place that had actual good food is probably being raided by ICE now, and not in a good ' thank you for improving the cruising around here' way. All the hunting I've ever done is trying to find the last open coffee shop for when I've procrastinated getting copy done and my editor sends out the submission email. Ha, ha, millennials these days am I right? I see what you mean about the number of jokes I make.

Why do I make jokes? Loaded question. I'll respond with one of my own. Do you ever notice how you start to talk about National Parks when you don't want to talk about yourself? Becky would probably say it's impolite to point that out - but Lynn calls it 'avoidance coping'. I make jokes because I apparently can't stand to have people see me cry. And not because I look fucking ugly doing it, as we've established. Crying is a vulnerable place to be and I don't like that shit at all. At least, that's what Lynn and I have talked about. 

I don't want to tell you how to live your life, especially when it seems you had a father who did that for you for a very long time. What I can tell you is that sometimes things you think are normal only seem that way because, well, you've lived with them your whole life. I thought everyone manipulated people into doing shit because that's what my brain told me to do. I took one look at Han Solo and was like, 'Yeah shooting people IS cool'. (Not the lesson George Lucas intended I assure you) and then tried to shoot my then best friend reenacting 1970s sci-fi. Sometimes your brain can't make good choices. Sometimes your brain has manic episodes. Sometimes you need a licensed professional to spell these things out for you because you've been living this way for 22 years. 

I see what you mean about hard to write. I think my cursor is staring back at me for how long I let it blink there. As if it could write what I want it to. God. Wouldn't that be fan-fucking-tastic? Everything is hard because of this god damn Nazi article! Now apparently there is some compound that him and the senate majority leader would meet up at during the late 90s? The mayor's wife was friends with someone who was there when they were plotting all of these Jim Crow-equse countermeasures against affirmative action? His son might have gone to Charlottesville? At what point do you just like throw in the towel and say, 'fuck it, I'm going to go live in the woods', because I'm thinking about that a lot right now.

Yours very truly and devoted,

Tom Sawyer

  
  
  


**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

Returning to you live, Ghost of a Chance,

I am the wrong person to be asking about when it's an opportune moment to say 'fuck it' and live in the woods. For me, it would have been years ago. Probably when I heard the words, 'gubernatorial candidate'. My door is always open for you, but I have to admit, you're a good writer. I hope you know that. I was reading some of the stuff you published in 2016 about The Election - and you have a way with words. You've got the power of persuasion behind you, whether or not you're on Zyprexa.

Sorry, this letter is coming so late. Since it's November now we're closing up for the winter and while clearing the river of debris which might cause 'unpleasant freezing conditions' I got my arm caught between some rocks in the river bed and am now living with a wonderful 8-inch gash in my arm. Said gash is making it hard to type. Harper, one of my more put together coworkers was able to bandage it up just fine so I didn't have to go to the hospital in Ketchum. I don't have three grand to spend on some back roads doctor to put Neosporin on my arm and call it a day. That's all you are getting about the state of my arms. I refuse to detail to you my bicep physique for fear we start something that we can't stop. 

I can't wait to stop waking up at 5:30 in the morning. Our last day on the river is this Friday and Saturday I am going to sleep until at least eight. Maybe nine if I am feeling it. I don't know if this is just in broadcast news, but do you also have to wake up before God does? When the rookies come up they're all worried about how they're going to be awake and alert in the morning - as if taking a plunge into 50-degree weather doesn't knock the sleep right out of you. 

I want to tell you about Stephen's accidental arthritis and this caravan of cross country runners that almost fell off the side of a mountain but I think my arm started bleeding again, and I really can't afford to get sepsis right now. Remind me next time because I will probably forget. Also, the next time we write I won't be a raft guide any more. Weird to think about... 

  
  


Huck

  
  
  
  


**Joplin, Missouri → Stanley, Idaho**

My loyal Kumquat,

Alright. I'll bite. How does one accidentally get arthritis? That seems like the kind of thing you would have to work up to. Like, accidentally painting the Mona Lisa, or accidentally getting pregnant. On some fundamental level... you know what you're doing. I await your explanation as soon as you aren't sporting the latest chic arm accessory from the I'm-A-Dumbass collection. You need to take better care of your limbs. I don't trust anyone who lives in - what did you call it- Ketchup? Catchem? Whatever. Anyone there to not fuck up your arm if any real surgery was involved. And I'm still holding out hope that you have terrific arms so you can't lose them until I know. After that, all bets are off, go wild, lose a limb. 

Thanks for believing in me. I feel at this rate you and Becky are the sole people who don't think I suck. I exclude myself from that list on purpose. You ever write something and think, "Yes. This is it.. This is fantastic. I am a genius" and then the next moment you are burning it with a Bic lighter you bought when you were sixteen? That's how my morning is going. There's been some new developments I definitely can't tell you about because now everything seems to be coming out at once and I can not handle it on my own but nobody else wants to touch this so I am working solo now which is fine because it will be great for my reputation if this goes well but now I'm just ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. 

To answer your one question. Yes. Yes, I am waking up at the crack of dawn. I think my blood has turned out to be 99% caffeine at this point. Sometimes, I don't even have to wake up that early but I've started having stress dreams about everything that needs to get done. So, instead of rolling over and going back to bed, I'll get up at three am and just start doing whatever it is I thought of. It's made me very efficient but also very tired. I'm just lucky most of my friends understand the publishing cycle so they don't think I'm ditching them. If I was dating someone I'm sure they would kill me for the three am thing. 

I'm going to go scream into my shower for a bit, it's the best I can do since Missouri is sans-mountains at the geological moment. Remember to tell me about Stephen!! I can't wait to hear it! Your letters are legit the highlight of my week. I don't think I would have survived this without thinking that there was some local cryptid out there rooting for me ;).

With the greatest esteem and respect,

Tom Sawyer

  
  
  


**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

Congratulations, New World Man!

By the time you get this, your article will be published! That must feel pretty cool, or maybe it sucks, I don't know. I'm just proud of you. I'm glad your brother is a shithead so I can call you my friend. I haven't had a chance to read it yet. We got our first amount of real snow, so I've been working to help clear the roads and make sure everything has been properly winterized. Most people up here have satellite connection which makes loading anything other than an email impossible. Next time I go to Sun Valley for groceries I will spend some quality time loitering at the library to read it. 

It's officially Winter™ here, so we have to get everything ready for December when the entire state of California decides they want to go skiing and snowshoeing. Normally, I would rail on people from metropolitan areas, but since you happen to be from a city - I guess they can't be all bad. Except for maybe thinking I would lose my arm to a scratch from the fucking river. Come on. That was a level one on the scale of stupid shit that's happened to me. You didn't blink an eye at me walking down a mountain with a broken arm. Stress dreams are making you soft. Can't have that happen. You gotta stay top shape to defeat all those fucking Nazi's. I bet you're a regular old Captain America - sacking old Hitler on the jaw. Have you tried taking Ambien for them, by the way? Sometimes I have dreams that I don't want to be having - and that always knocks me out. Though, if you are on other medication, I don't want your brain imploding on itself. Not sure even a hot-shot city doctor could fix that...

Stephen's accidental arthritis! Basically, Stephen was being really careful about wearing a brace and being protective of his joint while he was on the river. As you can probably imagine rowing does some nasty shit to your joints, then times that by three and that by five. Lots of chances for arthritis. However, what he forgot was that cutting chicken for said trips was also a repetitive motion and promptly lost all lack of protection and thus - got arthritis from cutting chicken. Not rafting. Ironic. 

Huck

  
  
  


**Joplin, Missouri → Stanley, Idaho**

You're making me blush, Guava,

If you haven't read it by the time this letter reaches you I think you would be one of the few people who haven't. Cable news got word of the scandal and made it a Thing, because apparently they were bored with reporting on the shitshow that is the federal government. I guess a governor leading a white supremacist cult is a good break from the presidential election. Why does this stuff only happen in the South? Can't we move past being racist? It's legit starting to hurt our branding of being 'nice hospitable people'. Which, okay, where did THAT come from? Last time I went home for Christmas and didn't have a girlfriend my aunt (not the mom aunt, she's great) started RAILING on me. I spent my entire high school career chain dating women okay. It's done! It's over! Half of them were devout Mormons anyways! I was just repressed! It's called internalized homophobia! Step off Karen!!!

This is just a long-winded way of telling you not to look at my Twitter mentions for the next couple of weeks. Or months. Or possibly forever. Tucker Carlson has started rage @ing me and now I have people asking me why I want America to be taken over by ISIS. I know you were probably joking about the whole, "Come to the mountains and I will show you cool trees," offer, but I'm asking you in a non-joking way. Does that still stand? My editor is thinking it might be best if I just, don't exist for a little bit. It's nothing big, but some people around town are getting restless, especially since Mr. Cheeto won, they're feeling rather ... aggressive.

I don't want to make you feel like you have to say yes. I understand that you have to prepare for your Californians. Just, my editor asked if I had any place I wanted to go for a couple of weeks and you were the first person I thought of. My family thinks I'm reaching out to an old college friend. I don't know how to explain you to my family. At this point, I don't even know if I want to. Not that I ashamed of you, I think you are probably the most badass person I've met - and that's fucking saying something. I just... I want what we have to be ours - and just ours. I don't want my fucking cousin Lydia trying to decipher your commas and shit. I like who we are, here, in these letters - and I think I'd like you in the real world too. Maybe a little too much.

With friendly thanks and best wishes,

Tom Sawyer

  
  
  
  


**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

Greetings to the newest member, The Trees,

I've started this letter several times and each time I am more and more unsure how to begin. I'll start at the beginning. I read your article. I stood in the middle of the co-op for twenty minutes after I read it just string at a bag of lettuce. I didn't need lettuce but I just couldn't stop thinking about the fact that people like that are in power. People like that make laws. My taxes probably pay for people like that. I just... I just I don't get it. Like you with Lynn, I ignored your sound advice and looked you up on Twitter, and - holy shit - there are so many people who are angry. But they're angry at you? Which is something I just don't understand? Why would anyone want to fight against you? It's a good thing I don't have a Twitter because if I did I would have fought like a million people with guns as their profile pictures. As someone who owns a gun - what the fuck.

It's cold here. I'm not saying all of this to discourage you. I'm saying this so you know what to pack. Tell me when you'll be here and I'll pick you up from the airport. I'll be the singular person there - so you can't miss me. I have an actual house now so - that's cool. I don't have two actual beds though. I can sleep on the couch if you want, I did that most of the summer. I want to help you in whatever capacity I can. I want to be there for you. In fact, even if you decide to wait this out in Mississippi, you should come to visit so people here can meet you and stop asking me questions I don't know how to answer. I don't know how to respond to your honesty except with my own. I think I like you a lot and that terrifies me. So, I mean, maybe if you come here then I can see all of your flaws, perhaps you like Quentin Tarantino films or tomatoes, but I'm also scared that will also like you a little more than I should. 

You outrank the Californians. I am sorry this happened to you and I want you to know you deserve this the least. I know what it's like to have people make you feel like you're less than you actually are - and I wouldn't want that on anyone. Especially someone as breathtaking as you.

Huck

  
  
  


**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

Paging Mr. Closer To The Heart,

I just wanted to let you know that you are officially a big hot-shot reporter now. You can move to LA and drive a Tesla. I saw your story in the Idaho Statesman which: red state, agricultural economy, probably also problematic government = you've made it. You might have left for Mississippi by the time my last letter mailed or you're just busy but I just wanted to let you know my offer still stands. I know it's not standard to double text, or in this case letter, but you mentioned things were tense and I haven't heard from you in a while. The Californians have started to arrive now, so I'm keeping busy, but I had to reach out because I can't stop thinking about you while I'm trying to break up the ice. 

Huck

  
  
  
  


**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

This one reflects my personal state, Losing It,

Listen, if your silence is because what I wrote back in November about how I felt about you, it's seriously nothing. You can honestly forget about it if it makes you uncomfortable. I think I just got caught up in everything that was happening and lost my sense of self for a moment. I read things wrong and that's on me. I never wanted to make you uncomfortable and if I did that, I really am incredibly sorry. I would never want that. Please, just tell me how I can fix this. I would rather be your just your friend than lose you because of something stupid I said. I refuse to believe that there's not a person behind these letters - I know you're out there. Please. 

Merry Christmas, by the way. The Califonians are in full swing. One called me Raspberry on accident and I almost started crying. 

Huck

  
  


**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

Seriously. Nobody's Hero,

Where did you go? Am I screaming into the void? Is this as pointless as throwing my feelings off the top of a peak? I'm not a mind reader. I don't know what you want me to say, or do, or fucking write. I'm going back and looking for any hints or signs that you dropped suggesting this was getting boring to you. I know in the beginning you said you were only doing this to be able to talk about it at work parties, as if what? Reporting critical news isn't enough for you? Did life-changing investigations get mundane to you? Is this how you were always planning on ending this? With me wishing my heart would stop speeding up every time I go to check the mailbox? I refuse to believe that someone so dedicated to pursuing truth could lie so fucking well. I get you like stories and I get it's your job to tell them - but you didn't have to string me along to get mine. I would have fucking handed it to you for free. All you had to do was ask. I don't know what these past months meant to you, but if you were seriously just in it for the listicle appeal - fuck you. 

Huck 

  
  
  


**Stanley, Idaho → Joplin, Missouri**

Tom Sawyer,

Please. Answer me.

Even if it's to tell me to fuck off.

Huck

  
  


_And then a letter arrived. And as soon as Huck opened the envelope he knew something was terribly, terribly wrong._

**Joplin, Missouri → Stanley, Idaho**

Greetings Mr. Finn, 

I hope this reaches you in good time and is addressed correctly. I attempted to map the address, however, the only thing that returned was the National Forest Service outpost. It is my understanding you are an important figure to Tom, who probably does not deserve your correspondence given his heightened ability for stupidity. However, as we probably both know, there is something so enticing about his brand of stupidity, you can't seem to pull yourself away. If he didn't tell you already, Tom talked about you quite at the office and I genuinely consider you to be one of his closest friends. As someone who worked closely with him for many years, I would like to thank you for being there for him as he struggled these past few months. 

Due to your support and closeness, I don't feel guilty about writing you this letter to inform you of some critical developments. Last Friday, Tom was admitted to the hospital after being a victim of what the police are investigating as attempted manslaughter; most likely a result of his investigative work on Rubert Peters' involvement with the local white heritage group. While his condition is stable, he remains in critical condition due to some internal hemorrhaging. 

I am so very sorry you had to hear this news from me. I am sure that if Tom had it his way, he would have jotted down quips for you while he was in surgery. If you have any more questions, we can speak at an expedited rate over text. You can reach me at 417-623-3480. 

Again, I apologize you had to hear it this way, 

Rebecca Thatcher 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. one thousand, six hundred and forty two point five miles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Huck gets on a flight.

Huck Finn will admit he doesn't really "think things through"; at least in the way most people do. People usually put some, oh what’s it called,  _ logical reasoning _ , he believes, into their plans. 

Huck’s a doer. That means he just  _ does things. _

His job at Yellowstone was an impulse decision caused by a flyer he saw on a cork board by the bathrooms in an Albertsons. The decision to not do the whole college thing came after watching too much Buffy and having the epiphany he would rather be a vampire and get to be free - than The Chosen and have to deal with going to class. And, becoming a raft guide was certainly NOT on the five-year plan of anyone who had ideas of "going places".

Huck wasn't sure about any of that stuff he did. He walked into a snowstorm with only mild confidence that there would shelter on the other side. But right now, Huck was 100% certain he was where he needed to be. Which is very interesting because no one sitting in economy on a cross country flight had ever thought that.

Despite Huck's certainty, he couldn't help but circulate through the ever-rotating questions surrounding the logistics of telling your friend Joe you're leaving for a week and that if anything breaks you'll fix it when you get back. Is the hospital going to let him in? Did he read this whole thing with Tom wrong and was this a stalker move? How is he even going to GET to this hospital? Was Tom going to even want to see him? Should he have written back to Becky instead of just impulsively logging onto United dot com backlash booking? How much does the Boise airport even charge for long term parking? Why does he feel this strongly about someone he’s never met in person? Is this a thing normal people do? Is Huck normal?

Huck thinks he might be having a minor breakdown.

The flight attendant asks if he would like any coffee or tea. He does not. He thinks he might vomit if he drinks anything. He looks back down at his phone, reading over his last conversation with a contact named: Rebbeca?Becky? Thatcher.

_ this is huck. what hospital is tom at? _

_ Hi, Huck! Glad to hear you got my letter. Tom’s at St. Mary’s downtown. He should be here for a little while longer if you are looking to get in contact with him! The hospital's address for mailing purposes is... _

Huck wasn’t sure how to say,  _ “Here’s the funny thing. I’m pacing in front of a SmashBurger in the Fort Worth airport as I wait out this layover because I realized I almost lost the opportunity to understand the peace I feel when I read Tom’s letters and, fuck it, I might be in love."  _

So he just said,

_ thanks! _

He thought the exclamation point was a really nice addition. 

The flight from Fort Worth to Joplin is supposedly one hour and thirty minutes but Huck is pretty sure that’s a load of capitalist bullshit because those scam artists at United Airlines made the flight feel like eight goddamn years. He GETS IT. They are TAXIING. The FASTEN SEAT BELT IS ON. Just let him get OFF THE PLANE! 

It costs $32.24 to go from the Joplin Regional Airport to St. Mary’s hospital. His Uber driver was also very concerned as to why he was going straight from the airport to the hospital. Razid, in his 2012 Toyota Corolla, kept spitting out lines that would better be suited for a game of Two Truths and a Lie. Such as how Huck was,  _ ‘a good God-fearing son’ _ and  _ ‘his family must be so proud of him’  _ and _ ‘my wife gave birth to three of my kids at this hospital and it cost a fortune. Best hope your wife does home birth’.  _

The punchline would be that Huck is neither, God-fearing, a proud son, or straight. 

If Tom were here he’d comment on how cool it is to find a Southern Church Matron™ who was also a 55-year-old Brazilian man. Huck has never heard Tom speak, but he hears his words in his head constantly. They crackle like a cassette as his brain struggles to create a voice where none exists. 

Then he’s standing there. At St. Mary’s Hospital. In Joplin, Missouri. The nurse has just dropped him off in front of room 411B where one Thomas Sawyer is currently on his way to recovering from a heinous hate crime committed by a bunch of neo-Nazi’s who all had shaved heads in their Facebook profile pictures. 

_ Huck knows. There are seventeen Chrome tabs open on his phone right now. _

He just realized he still has his backpack on. It’s the only thing he has with him besides the hope that Tom will let him down with grace and tranquillity if this gut stabbing feeling he thinks is love really only lives within him. How can something so painful and all-consuming just be confined within one person? Is this feeling really not shareable? Does Tom think about him and do his hands not shake and does his breath not shallow out and does he not find consonants particularly hard to pronounce? 

“Yes, of course, you still have a job. Tom, these are not the things you need to be worrying about.” A woman’s voice carries out of the open doorway. He can hear every syllable she’s saying but he still finds himself stepping towards the door frame. There is nothing in his brain right now. It’s the wild west. It’s Stanley in January. It’s horrible. 

“Well, I already know Sid took my PS4 while I was in surgery, lil’ fucker, so I don’t have to worry about anything valuable being taken from my apartment. I can’t exactly worry my body back to health. Though my mother is certainly trying.” There is a pause, and Huck can hear his heart beating in his ears. “Fuck. Maybe that’s why my ribs hurt so bad. It’s for all the shit moves I pulled in high school.” 

“Hey be gentle. She’s never had a son be the victim of a hate crime.” There is a sound that sounds like it is accompanied by an eye-roll. One of those scoffs that come from within. 

“No shit Becky, you couldn’t have told me-”

Huck would be lying if he said he didn't spend time lying awake at night imagining what Tom Sawyer would look like. Was is superficial to think of someone's hair color as you spilled your entire childhood trauma letter after letter? There’s no one image that exists in his head that he can call “Tom Sawyer”; he is an amalgamation of every beautiful thing he's ever come in contact too. He’s morning air and the sky after it snows and erasers shaped like novelty items. 

Then Huck breaches the threshold of the doorway and he makes eye contact with Tom Sawyer for the first time and holy shit he's going to pass out - this is it here he goes. 

Huck doesn’t end up passing out. What he does end up doing is running his tongue along the back of his teeth, opening his mouth, and saying,

“Hi.” 

As the absolute terror washed over him, he realized he had six hours of travel to think of something and opened with motherfucking,  _ hi.  _

Luckily for Huck, Tom seems to be just as verbose. 

“Hello.” 

Huck can’t look anywhere except for the hospital bed. He doesn’t know anything except for the fact Tom Sawyer has auburn hair. Do people really have auburn hair anymore? Wow, it looks soft. Huck wants to run his fingers through it. He wants to wake up and see it next to him on the pillow. He wants- Oh no. Huck points to the blonde woman sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed. Tom called her Becky. If that isn’t Becky and this is the wrong room this is going to be so awkward for everyone involved. 

“She sent me your letter.” He’s wearing a winter jacket and the crinkle of his sleeve raising his arm to point is the loudest sound in the room - and Huck has always hated taking up space. 

“Oh.” Is the reply Huck receives. He should turn to look at Becky. He should turn and thank her for changing the course of his life but he can not stop staring at Tom. Tom Sawyer has green eyes. Huck knows Tom Sawyer feels deeply troubled by the fact he has to go to therapy but didn’t know he had green eyes. Huck also noticed the purple spattering of burst blood vessels around Tom’s eyes and immediately thinks they pull out the flecks of blue in Tom’s eyes. Bruises aren’t beautiful but Tom wears them well. 

Huck wonders if they hurt. The reason Tom has them at all might hurt more than the blood reorganizing itself within his face, Huck thinks to himself. He should say something else. Not about Tom’s eyes, of course, that would be weird, and possibly too gay. Fuck. The air conditioner seems un-naturally loud now. Huck thinks that this must be what a jet engine sounds like. This is what a sonic boom is. This air conditioner. Right here. Making so much noise that Huck’s brain is turning to static as he tries to think of anything that will bring relief to Tom at this moment.

But. He. Just. Can’t. Stop. Staring. 

Huck knows what it’s like to be left behind. He knows what it's like to hold hurt all alone. He knows he should say something! He flew three thousand miles to say something! But now that the moment is here, all he can think of is how he was writing to someone who looked like a descendant of Catherine O’Hara this whole time and Huck told them about the troubles of deer hunting!

Huck knows so much about him! Tom, who is staring back at him with a look on his face that Huck  _ can not  _ decipher because! They’ve! Never! Met! Before! This was a mistake, holy shit, this was a mistake, Tom hates him for sure now. Huck drops his head to see if the floor will offer him any comfort and in doing so happens to catch a glimpse of Tom’s hand. 

“You broke your arm?” It comes out as a question despite the white material twisting its way around Tom’s hand. Tom blinked suddenly and jerking his head back slightly, he looked down at his own hand as if he had forgotten it was there.

“Fingers actually,” Tom replied, “Do you know how difficult it is to call 911 when your thumbs don’t work?”

“I can’t say I do,” Huck responds, meeting Tom’s eyes again.  _ Still green.  _ “I made a splint out of paracord once though. I mean,” he sticks his hands deep into his pockets, “I still could. If I needed to. If the situation arose. If someone needed help.” 

“See that’s a useful skill to learn,” Tom says and Huck sees him smile for the first time. It creeps upon his face as he talks like a feline in tall grass. It’s coming for him and Huck is just standing there like the deer he sees going to work. It’s a fucking amazing experience, seeing something for the very first time. Maybe, if Tom allows him, Huck can see how Tom Sawyer brushes his teeth, and cooks his breakfast, and does his laundry. Huck’s mind is a runaway train, the conductor has thrown a coup. “Middle Eastern art theory hasn’t really come up for me once I graduated.” 

“I can show you if you want?” Huck hopes that’s not too forward. It seems like a great step back considering his initial gut reaction was,  _ “Do you want me to go frame the men who did this to you for treason and/or mass murder?” _ Tom smiles again,  _ Second time. _ This time with a small laugh, and he still won’t break his gaze away from Huck. 

“Considering I have four pins in my arm already from where I fell out of a pick-up truck doing something really cool-”

“What are you talking about?” Becky interrupts, causing Huck to instinctively take a step back as if he’s done something wrong. He forgot she was here. Becky… knows, right? She sent him a letter. She has to. Huck wouldn’t do that to a friendship.

“Becky don’t out me like this,” Tom says exasperatedly throwing his arms up. Huck doesn’t miss the wince as Tom’s bandaged arm lands. “I already did enough damage by admitting I bought GQ just to look at Chris Evans.” Huck can see a chance when one approaches and responds without missing a second, 

“To be fair, I think anybody with eyes likes looking at Chris Evans,” Huck says, looking to Becky. Becky, thank god, nods sagely. She looks crazy put-together. She was for sure on student council in high school. She’s got braids in for christ's sake. Huck is wearing pants from the discount section of the Army & Navy surplus store and never took the SAT. This woman could probably destroy him with a single word.

Instead, she smiles at him, and it reaches up into her eyes in a way that reminds Huck of his third-grade teacher, Ms. Kassim. She taught him how to read.

“I’m glad you came.” She says, just to him. “I’m going to go check in with the nurse, about your medication,” Becky says to Tom before giving them both a polite little wave and closing the door softly behind her. 

This is the first time he’s ever been alone with Tom Sawyer. In  _ normal  _ relationships, you start counting first's at grand declarations of love, but right now Huck’s uncertainty of how much longer he has with Tom has him counting everything. 

“You can sit down,” Tom says, gesturing to the chair Becky had left behind. “I apologize if I seem really off. I think they put me on Codeine and I think the shock of me realizing you’re actually here is messing with it.” 

“I can leave if it’s too much,” Huck says, already taking a step towards the door. 

“No, no, no, no!” Tom spits out rapid-fire. He leans forward trying to reach out to Huck who comes forward just to make sure Tom doesn't kill himself trying to move. “I just know I look like I got hit with a truck and that freaks people out!”

“Oh.” Huck thought that was a weird thing to be concerned about. “No problem. I’ve seen worse?”

“The woods get to you again?” Tom laughs.

“My father.” Huck hasn’t lied to Tom and he’s not going to start now. He will admit, now that he has to make eye contact while saying these things - they seem harder to get out of his mouth. 

Tom gives Huck one of the smiles of sadness. The kind that says _ , I don’t think you deserved that.  _ But it's not pitiful, and Huck likes that. 

“Why do we always end up here?” Tom asks. “I’m starting to feel we’re drawn to the macabre and I’m not sure how I feel about that.” Huck mulls the question over for a second before replying, 

“I think that’s just us.” 

“Well if it's our thing I suppose I’m okay with it. I like thinking there's something only we experience in this world.” Another thing Huck noticed about Tom - his fingers are strangely nimble looking. He twists some of them together as he talks, a habit, no doubt, so strong it's not even broken by shattered bones, and Huck is mesmerized.

“It’s good to see you,” Tom continues, “I feel like I should have opened with that. It’s good to see you, despite everything. I feel bad though because I did really, really, really, wanted to meet you and I think God might have misinterpreted my plea of  _ ‘do anything’ _ as quite literal.” 

Huck can’t help but let out a small laugh which is masquerading the sigh of relief. If Tom is making jokes, he must feel a lot better than he looks. 

“I just bought a plane ticket, which sure, wasn’t cheap, but I can guarantee you are still losing by paying extensive surgical bills. You should have just impulsive-flown out West. I can assure you most people only think you’re trying to stop a wedding.” Huck tells him.

“Dude,” Tom rolls his eyes, “please do not bring up how much I am paying to eat dry chicken and watch  _ The Magic School Bus _ right now. My heart will stop beating again.” He looks down at his hands. Huck thinks Tom must honestly be able to say he knows things like the back of his hand - because they’re the number one eye location for Tom right now. “Also, speaking of impulse-flying.” He coughs. “I have five weeks off because of,” he gestures vaguely to all of him, “.. this.”  _ He still won’t make eye contact with Huck. _ “I still need somewhere- I'd like to not stay... Missouri just," He lets out a sigh, "I mean, I was just wondering if your offer still stands?”  _ Why won’t he make eye contact? _ “I know it’s been like three weeks so if you’re busy and I know you were thinking about leaving and so I totally get it if it’s a no. In fact, it might be better, I mean teach resilience-”

“I’ve never been certain about anything in my life.” Huck has to stop Tom before he talks himself out of spending more time in Huck’s presence. Tom, rightfully so, seems absolutely lost by Huck’s statement. He takes a deep breath on shaky lungs and keeps going. 

“I’ve never thought anything in my life was permanent. Ever. Because up until now I don’t think anything ever was. Permanent, I mean.” He looks to Tom’s hand. The one he had previously been wringing. His hand which is bandaged up in gauze that probably costs as much as Huck’s rent. He wants to take it but is scared of what will happen if Tom knows. If Tom know what he’s feeling because he can’t change that and-

You know what? With what he’s about to admit he doesn’t think it will matter much.

With the strength and power of an eyelash falling, he reaches out and winds his fingers around Tom’s palm, “If you want to be in my life. I will make room for you. I will make that a priority.” 

Tom, who previously wouldn’t stop looking at his own hands like they were some sort of MOMA exhibit, now looks to Huck. Then back down. He just keeps staring at their hands. Intertwined. Together. Then in a voice that cracks through Huck’s heart, Tom asks, “Do you really mean that?” 

Out of all the possible responses to Huck ripping his heart out of his chest and handing it Tom with the causality of a breakfast burrito, this is the one he is least prepared for. Huck thought about Tom laughing at him. Thought about Tom reeling in disgust. Thought about the hospital collapsing on top of them and him having to saw his arm off to escape. Huck doesn’t want to get ahead of himself because there is the very real possibility he is reading this wrong… But reciprocated feelings? What the fuck! This was not part of the plan! This was just a dream! 

“I haven’t planned anything in my life,” Huck starts with the facts because that is all he can handle right now, “I think you know that, but I would gladly plan a future with you in it. If that’s what you wanted.” He wants to say more. He wants to continue on about the things he would be willing to compromise on if Tom wanted those things too, but there is something in his throat stopping any words from coming out. 

Tom starts to become blurry in front of him and it’s at that moment Huck notices he’s going to cry. Huck doesn’t think he’s cried in front of anyone since he was twelve and it was the worst experience possible. For some reason though, which Huck totally understands and doesn’t really want to name, Huck doesn’t have that same feeling of shame and despair building in his stomach.

Before Huck can have an emotional breakdown Tom sticks his hand out, the one Huck’s not holding so he has to throw it across his body, as if to shake it. Huck just looks at him strangely, not sure what to do with this. Tom thrusts it out further and jerks his head towards it.

“You’re supposed to shake it. That’s what you do when you meet someone for the first time.” Huck, willing to play along with whatever game Tom has created as long because he’s an honest man and will admit he wants to touch Tom again. 

“Hello.” Tom starts shakily. “My name is Thomas Sawyer. I’m 24. My favorite movie is _ Die Hard _ . I'm sixty-three percent sure I'm in love with you and if you asked me out right now I would not say no.”

And Huck, ever the  _ motherfucking wordsmith _ replies to the first-ever declaration of love he has ever received, and will probably ever receive with,

“What?” 

To Tom Sawyer’s credit, he recovers wonderfully for having just admitted his love to someone and then having them respond with,  _ what?  _

“Yeah. I realized bleeding out in front of an Edwards Cinema that I really needed to take account of what was important to me in life. That I shouldn’t be afraid to do things because I might not be around to do them tomorrow, so I figured I should move on from calling you names like a third grader and just tell you I like you way more than you should like someone who you’ve never met.” He takes a deep breath and grips both of Huck’s hands tighter. “Which is stupid heavy because I look like a  _ Grey’s Anatomy  _ patient and you just flew three million miles and probably don’t want to hear this.”

Huck decides he’s done thinking. Huck is a doer. He knows how to do things. He clears his throat. 

“Hi. I’m Huck. I’m 25. I’ve been scared of my father my whole life. I don't’ let the people I love hurt alone, and I really want to kiss you right now.”

Tom looks him dead in the eyes.

And nods. 

Huck breaks one of his hands away so he can reach out and hold Tom’s face. Gently, of course. He is hyper-aware of the bruises and the scrapes and everything that shouldn’t be littering Tom’s face right now. Tom clutches at the front of his jacket with his bandaged hand and with a surprising amount of force for someone in the hospital pulls him forward until their lips meet. 

It’s not fireworks. It’s not the lights of Vegas. It’s like coming home. Like taking a bath. It’s the most comfortable thing Huck has experienced and there is a rail digging into his ribs. Tom smells like cherry and vanilla, but in a way that is so far removed from reality, Huck thinks he is dreaming. He rubs his thumb along Tom’s jawline as he inhales just a little bit. He can taste the statically feel of medicinal substances on Tom’s mouth and honestly, that’s probably the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. Tom’s hand moves his hand and threads through Huck's hair pulling him closer, demanding more, which Huck would be happy to give on any occasion where Tom is not covered in bruises

Tom breaks away, but they’re still so close together and Huck’s mind is reeling. He can not focus on anything. Tom runs his hand through Huck’s hair and holds his face as if Huck were something of value. 

“Please tell me you didn't fly American,” Tom says suddenly. Now it’s Huck’s turn to be confused. “It’s just, I once flew American to go to a conference in DC and it was the worst experience of my life. They canceled my flight three times. We can not fly American. If you flew American I will have to fly a different airline because I’m not going through that again.” He finished with the kind of aggressive tone Huck’s heard from Girl Scout leader troop mom’s scolding their children. Which is to say, in a different situation than this. Which is to say, Huck can’t help but laugh, and his voice cuts through all of the tension they’ve built up. He sees Tom start to smile again,  _ number five _ , and then begins to laugh as well. Huck quickly reaches up and wipes away the tears from his eyes with his hand not currently clinging to Tom's. He sees Tom do the same and chooses it's better if he doesn’t say anything. However, as Tom does so, a strand of auburn hair falls across his face and Huck digs his fingernails into the flesh of his palm to remind himself he should not reach up and brush it away. 

“I will have you know I flew United. I don’t think American even flies out of the Boise airport.” Huck answers because he respects a man with strong opinions.

“Okay, that’s a relief. I didn’t have the time to build up the emotional energy to accept I was in love with someone who flew American. I mean, Becky told me she wrote to you, however given past standards, I just expected a letter back. I did not expect you to roll up and make out with me.” That stops Huck in his tracks and makes him drop his head in order to not spontaneously combust. 

Tom reaches out and pulls his hair out of his face. “Don’t do that. I spent months not knowing you were so fucking hot I have to indulge in it now.” Huck can physically feel himself start to blush and can only pray to a god he doesn’t believe in that he does not look too stupid right now. Tom starts laughing and for a moment Huck worries that this is indeed - a fucking joke. Self-loathing is a bitch. They just kissed. Accept this is real Finn. Come on. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing,” Tom says while he is still, you guessed it, laughing, “I’m just remembering my original question, and I finally have my answer.”

“I’m worried to ask because you had a lot of really bad questions,” Huck responds.

“You do have really great biceps.” 

Huck is saved from making a response by a nurse walking in. Huck goes to drop their hands. This is Missouri. This is not the place. They are not in control. But Tom holds on tighter. He turns to him and says softly,

“You’ll be here later, right?” Tom looks so vulnerable at this moment. 

“I will be here until you don’t want me to.” He squeezes his hand and pulls away. He nods to the nurse on his way out, but just before he leaves he pauses in the door frame and turns around to address Tom one last time,

“By the way,” Huck says casually, “you’re not so bad yourself.” He doesn’t get to hear Tom’s response because he’s already out the door. Guess he will just have to ask him later.

He likes the thought of that. Becky catches him once he’s outside. Apparently, she had really just deemed it best to stand outside awkwardly in the hallway. 

“Hey,” she says placing a hand softly on his arm, “thank you. You really didn’t have to come all the way out here, especially on such short notice” Huck really did, “I really did just think you deserved to know what was going on I wasn’t trying to literally guilt trip you. I hope you know that.”

“I came because I wanted to,” Huck tells her. “I owed it to Tom, not because of guilt, but because we’re…” He pauses. What are they? Is this dating? Should Huck like, r/relationship this? “...close.” Is the word he settles on. “I should really be thanking you. You’ve been here through the worst of it.” 

Becky, who Huck is not for sure is a saint, just scoffs like she was bringing over milk. “As you said, it’s what friends do. The move-in was pretty easy. He already had a lot of clothes already packed. Not sure why…” Her face suddenly lights up. “Oh yeah! He wrote something I believe is for you,” She starts digging through her purse violently, “before all… Well, before everything happened.” She pulls out a letter. It isn’t addressed to anyone nor does it have a stamp on it, but Huck can recognize it. It pulls him the same as all the other letters he’d ever received. He takes it from her. 

“I…”, Huck can't think of anything to say, “Thank you,” he settles on.

“Of course, it was always meant for you. I should go tell Tom goodbye.” Becky nods towards the door. “Then if you want, I can take you round to my place? You’re free to stay as long as you like.”

“That would be really nice. Thank you.” Huck says. Becky heads back in leaving Huck in the empty hallway. The nurse, doctors, even other guests have all found other places to be. So, in complete solitude, Huck opens the letter.

_ Dear Huckleberry, _

_ I don’t have a lot of time because the office is closing in fifteen and I’m writing this out so I can drop it off at the post office on my way home. Does Friday work for you? I’d worry it's too soon but we are so far out in open water I am ready to drown if it means I can see you sometime soon. Don’t go on Twitter anymore. Please. You won’t like what you see.  _

_ I can guarantee you I don’t like Tarantino films and I don’t have opinions on tomatoes, but I can also tell you I don’t think I’d care if you liked me a little more than normal.  _

_ I don’t think I’d fly cross country to meet someone I would only want to be friends with.  _

_ We’ll talk more about what your last line means later. _

_ Love, _

_ Tom _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry this is coming so much later after the first one. I was going to write it on the flight back but bc of the corona virus and chinese new year my flight got hella delayed and misdirected so that was a niiightttmaaare.  
> But i hope you enjoyed it, and thats the main goal.


End file.
